Poem Written in My Grandmother’s Dress

Rust orange and brown checkered,

thick but not quite wool. Not quite

cotton either though I can’t name it,

can’t identify it on the internet either.

So I resign, run my fingers along the hem,

try to hear the song she sang into each seam—

guess how many times she slipped it over

her dyed black and permed hair, lotioned

white face. I estimate the exact place

it might have fallen over her pantyhose

covered knees. This is real vintage—

from my grandmother’s closet,

and yet, I can’t even ask her about it.

I couldn’t ask for it then either—

my mother translated. My grandmother

smiled, pulled it out quickly and put it into

my arms. Gently, I held each end over

my head and slipped myself underneath.

reflection in the mirror. Of course, I fit

her dress the way I never will her tongue.